


Please Forgive Me

by Rehfan



Series: White Ladder [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Lube, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, when things were calmer, Sherlock would reflect on this first proper orgasm and describe it thus: A white-hot explosion where there were no rational thoughts and every moment of his prior existence washed away as if it had never mattered.</p><p>The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】请原谅我](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963127) by [Pattypancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattypancake/pseuds/Pattypancake)



> This is a Sherlock Johnlock fanfic that is based on the music of David Gray's album, White Ladder. Each chapter is named after each track in sequence and is headed with a quote from that particular song.
> 
> The album was released in 1999, but it's one of my favorite albums and it is available for download on iTunes. Please download it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Part One is based on this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqIFYv1_yHI
> 
> This piece has been lovingly translated into Chinese by hamLock (THANK YOU!)  
> Translation link address: http://doctective.com/viewthread.php?tid=1744

“Please forgive me if I act a little strange;  
For I know not what I do.  
Feels like lightning running through my veins,  
Every time I look at you.”

 

“Sherlock!” called John. Sherlock had gone through the roof access door without waiting, as usual. Lestrade and his men were sure to be on their way, but Sherlock never waited for anything. That impatience was going to get him killed and that’s why John followed him. 

It was a freezing cold night and the wind on the museum roof caused John’s teeth to chatter instantly. Looking around he spotted the black coat against the melting snow on the National Gallery rooftop. John gave chase. 

“Sherlock, where- ,” said John as he came to a stop beside the detective. They looked down over the edge of the building. The rope that the thief had attached to the roof as part of his escape route was vibrating. The thief was halfway down it and looked as though he was going to be able to scarper before the police arrived.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock climbed atop the ledge and took hold of the rope.

“Sherlock!” said John. “Don’t do that! You don’t know how much weight that rope will hold!”

“Nonsense, John,” said Sherlock casually, as if he leapt from rooftops every day. “You forget he had a partner in this: the dead man downstairs. The man we pursue, Carson, had no intention of purchasing the necessary supplies for this end of their escapade because he knew we’d trace their purchase and the dead man downstairs, Milbury, didn’t suspect that his partner would turn on him. Therefore, the rope will hold both of us easily, Milbury being the one to purchase the rope in the first place.” And with that, Sherlock winked and he was over the ledge and gone.

As soon as the thief was at the bottom of the rope, John began his descent from the roof to continue his job of protecting Sherlock from himself. When his feet touched the ground again, John turned to see the thief with a gun in his hands, raising it at Sherlock. The Vermeer painting that Carson heisted was in Sherlock’s hands and the detective was using it as a makeshift shield. 

John saw red. His pulse quickened. His hand reached for the gun he didn’t have. Why tonight, of all nights, did he not bring his gun? Stupid. John wanted desperately to save Sherlock, but how? He felt helpless. He was on the verge of doing something completely reckless when he made eye contact with Sherlock. He’d never seen Sherlock’s eyes so panicked. Just then, blue lights flashed. Carson turned to look and that’s when John ran at him, full throttle.

If the February night air in Trafalgar Square was cold, the body tackle that took Carson and John into the fountain proved to be the catalyst to an experience of cold that John had never before understood. Resurfacing, John gasped for air desperately. Carson was climbing out the other side of the fountain and ran smack into Gregg Lestrade and three policemen. Sherlock’s attempts to get John out of the freezing cold water only resulted in the both of them being soaked to the skin.

“You two clumsy gits,” said Lestrade. “What in hell are you trying to do? Catch your death?”

“C-c-catch a thief and m-m-murderer, D-d-etective Inspector,” said Sherlock deprecatingly, shivering with the cold.

“Oh grab yourselves some blankets and get home. I’ll get your statements in the morning,” said Lestrade, his patience worn thin for one evening.

~080~

Freezing cold and wearing blankets over sopping wet clothes, they left the company of the good Detective Inspector and headed back to 221B. Sherlock started a fire in the fireplace and sat before it to warm his face and chest.

“Budge over,” said John, clearly needing the warmth more than Sherlock.

“We should really take off these soaking togs,” said Sherlock.

There was logic in this and both John and Sherlock were in their smalls inside of a moment.

“Much better,” sighed John. His undershirt and pants were still wet, but the heat from the fire was doing well to warm him. Sherlock couldn’t help but stare. Sure, John had roamed around 221B in next to nothing before, but he always wore a robe to cover himself. This was the first time Sherlock was able to view his musculature without hindrance. John had closed his eyes, sitting tailor fashion on the floor next to Sherlock and the detective let his sharp eyes roam over his flat-mate without fear of reprisals. John could be so touchy about personal things like bodies.

John’s body was not altogether unappealing to Sherlock. His eyes roamed over the two-day stubble of John’s beard, past a perfectly curved ear, around to the back of the skull where there were the finest blond hairs at the base of his hairline, curving back around the neck down the sternocleidomastoid muscle that always jutted out whenever John got really irritated with him. The collarbones curved out from the top of his chest and gave way to pectoral muscles that were still prominent with the exertion that a solider is put through. John’s posture was erect, even in this position of seeming repose, another tell-tale sign of his military career; the spine causing the skin of his back to dip inward even as the muscles to either side of it created cresting hills of flesh all the way down to his buttock. It was all Sherlock could do not to trace his fingertip down John’s spine. Sherlock shivered at the thought and John’s eyes snapped open.

“Alright, mate?” John asked. His voice was sleepy. He was tired and the fire was no help in that regard.

“Fine,” replied Sherlock and assumed the same pose John held only moments before, eyes closed.

John looked at his friend for a few moments. He hated that Sherlock was so damn pretty. “Man-pretty” Harry called it. And he was certainly that. Here they were after a 6-hour stake-out, witnessing a theft and a murder, a rooftop chase, quite the frightening rappel down the side of the National Gallery, being held at gunpoint with his only protection being a very small albeit priceless painting, and Sherlock looked fucking flawless. Bare chested, Sherlock’s creamy white skin practically glowed in the firelight. Each of his perfect curls caught the light in a different way and framed a face that, let’s face it, only the angels could have designed. John found himself staring at Sherlock’s mouth for an embarrassingly long time. He also found himself salivating a bit. And, if he were honest, he found he had what was beginning to amount to a semi-erection in his pants. What was going on here?

John cared for Sherlock. He would readily admit that to anyone who asked. Sherlock was his best friend. Friends were supposed to care for one another. That was how friendship worked. But this erection and the salivation? That was a whole different level. That sort of thing happened when he was a spotty teen and saw pictures of Elle McPherson in his mum’s fashion magazines.

It took a minute for the thought to coalesce in John’s mind: he wanted to kiss Sherlock. He wanted that creamy skin on his. He wanted to cure him and save him and protect him and he wanted to taste Sherlock. It was all there all at once. These feelings had always existed, but for whatever reason, be it the firelight, or the rooftop chase, or the cold bath he took in a fountain in London, John awoke to these feelings as though they were the most natural thing in the world. According to his heart, John Watson was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson’s body wanted to do something about it.

“Go on then, John,” said Sherlock, his voice set at a deeper register than usual. Something inside John lit on fire and he looked up to see the detective eyeing him. No, not eyeing him…. Deducing him.

“You want me to- ?” asked John.

“Yes, John,” said Sherlock. “And, if I’m honest, I’ve wanted you to for quite some time.”

John shifted closer to Sherlock and leaned over and up to that amazing mouth. Snaking his hand into Sherlock’s curls, the first brush of their lips ignited a passion that ran much deeper than either man suspected existed. Velvet tongues touched and John let out a low moan that shot straight to Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock tasted even better than John thought he would. Words, no -- impressions, came into his mind, unbidden: warm, wet, rough, soft, smoke, tea, Sherlock…

Sherlock’s hand shot to John’s hip and his fingers dug in probably leaving bruises, but John didn’t care. He wanted this. He almost lost the most amazing man he had ever known tonight and he wanted Sherlock to cling to him for dear life. John deepened the kiss, exploring Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and slid his other hand under Sherlock’s shoulder and down his back. The touch of Sherlock’s skin under his hand was like electricity and Sherlock softly moaned into John’s mouth.

Unfolding his legs, John leaned back onto the floor, taking Sherlock with him. Instinctively, Sherlock wrapped one long leg around John, half-straddling his hips. They broke the kiss long enough for Sherlock to look into John’s eyes. They stared at each other, breathing each other’s breath for what seemed like years.

John’s eyes moved all over Sherlock’s amazing face, taking in details of the man that he wouldn’t ordinarily have. It wasn’t that John wasn’t close enough to him. Sherlock did lean into John’s face often and without regard for personal space. At first, John found it annoying. But after getting to know Sherlock, he just accepted it as a mannerism belonging exclusively to the detective. Now, John wasn’t so sure that Sherlock hadn’t been doing it all along just to be physically close to him without Sherlock having to be overtly sexual about his need for that close proximity. Who would have guessed it: Amazing Sherlock was attracted to Ordinary John. It was sort of titillating to think about, and more than a little ridiculous. John allowed himself a small smile.

“What?” asked Sherlock. His eyes never stopped taking in data. And now, with John so close to him, he needed to know that he wouldn’t be rejected. His heart went into his stomach when John smiled. Was it a smirk? Was John Watson about to laugh at his attempt to seduce his flat-mate? Was this the rejection that he feared so very much? “What are you smiling at?”

“You, you beautiful git,” said John. He allowed the small smile to grow. Sherlock was nervous. More than that, he was actually nervous enough to allow John to see! What a miracle.

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” John said. He traced his fingertips over the skin of Sherlock’s back with one hand while the other left feather-light touches along Sherlock’s long neck. The mental image of sucking that neck hard enough to bruise... John felt his cock twitch at the thought. But first: that mouth.

Relief flooded Sherlock; so much so that the detective nearly wept from joy. He leaned down and placed a chaste, warm kiss to John’s lips. He hoped that kiss contained as much gratitude as he felt right at that moment. As the kiss ended, John’s pupils suddenly blew wide. Almost leading with his tongue, John leaned up toward Sherlock and licked Sherlock’s lips: first the top with that amazing Cupid’s bow, then the bottom, and here he lingered to suck on it, releasing it from his mouth with a soft suck-pop. Sherlock’s mind shut off.

Sherlock pressed a bruising hungry kiss to John and let those kisses trail down John’s jaw line, mixing them with little nips in between. When Sherlock reached the hollow John’s collarbone made at the base of his neck, John let out a low moan that went straight to Sherlock’s already throbbing cock.

John’s grip shifted to Sherlock’s lower back, both his hands pulling their hips together. Their cocks brushed and both men gasped at the sensation. Slowly, Sherlock placed all his weight on John, his legs straddling John’s, his hands running up and down John’s ribcage. Their kisses became desperate, messy. Their breath became erratic.

Oh God. This is too good, thought John. Need more. John could feel his and Sherlock’s erections under the cloth that covered them and suddenly what they were wearing was just too much clothing for his liking. John slipped his hands underneath Sherlock’s pants and took a firm hold of his arse, grinding their groins together even more than before.

Sherlock bit back a groan when John squeezed his backside.

“No,” said John, his breath hot on the detective’s ear. “I want to hear you. I need to hear you.” John nipped at Sherlock’s earlobe inciting a baritone moan from the detective that John never thought he would ever get to hear in this lifetime or the next. He loved that sound. He wanted to make Sherlock make that sound – a lot.

Fuck, thought Sherlock. He realized (with more than a little shock) that John was capable of getting his brain to shut off. That was the second time it happened in the past two minutes. There was something to be studied there, but before he could remember to study it (study what?) John’s fingers were caressing the crack of his arse and skimming over his arsehole and oh my God what the ever-loving hell is this?

“My bedroom,” said John, his voice dark with want. “Now.”

The two men scrambled to their feet and headed to John’s room at the top of the stairs. Upon entering, John stripped completely, turned and proceeded to get on his knees in front of Sherlock. Gripping the waistband of his pants, John huffed hot breath along Sherlock’s undeniable erection, noting the wet spot of precum that leaked through and Sherlock’s corresponding groan. My god, I have such power over him, thought John. It was heady. Slowly John pulled the front of Sherlock’s pants down to reveal a long cock of some thickness, shiny and dripping with precum at the exposed glans. John slid Sherlock’s pants down far enough so Sherlock could step out of them. John then returned his focus to Sherlock’s beautiful cock. John put out his tongue to catch the warm liquid that was dripping from it, almost touching the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s glans. He heard Sherlock hiss in anticipation. The bitter-salty taste of it was unusual, but not wholly unpleasant, John decided. He looked up at the detective whose eyes were now wide with surprise and desire. John gave him a smile and quickly licked the underside of the glans playfully.

Sherlock let out what was tantamount to a yelp. Seeing John just sitting in front of his hard cock doing nothing but grinning at him made him half mad with desire. The suddenness of that quick lick was adding insult to injury. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Please, John. Please. Do something. Please.”

“That’s three times,” said John.

“What?” said Sherlock abstractedly still focused on his neglected cock dangling so close but so far from that satisfying mouth and tongue.

“You’ve begged me three times just now,” said John. “You can never again say that you’ve never begged for something a day in your life.” John grinned even wider.

Sherlock smirked and took John’s face in his hands. He pulled him to his feet and kissed John using everything he had catalogued about what John liked. John melted into that kiss, slowly coming undone. As he slowly flicked the doctor’s tongue with his own, Sherlock reached down and took hold of both of their throbbing cocks.

John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth at the sensation of both of their hard pricks moving against one another in that hot fist. He reached down and helped Sherlock and they slowly, teasingly, stroked each other until neither man could stand steady on his feet.

John broke the kiss. He needed air and a bit of separation otherwise he was going to come much sooner than he wanted to. Gently extracting himself from Sherlock’s touch, John headed toward the bed. Opening up a bedside table drawer, he took out some lube and a condom.

“I’ve only ever done this once before with a man. Things happened in Afghanistan that I really shouldn’t have to explain. But I was wondering, Sherlock… Have you ever--?” John asked him over his shoulder. He didn’t want to embarrass the detective with awkward questions that could ruin the moment but he had to know. He certainly didn’t want to embarrass his best friend any further by looking him in the eye and asking.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Once. At Uni. It was… unpleasant.”

At this, John made eye contact with Sherlock. The detective looked abashed and didn’t meet John’s gaze. His hands were fists at his side. He looked every bit the awkward teenager.

“Well I can promise you that I will do you no harm, Sherlock. I am a doctor, after all. And you are my best friend in the whole world,” said John, jutting his chin out signaling his determination to keep that promise.

Sherlock met his eyes for a fleeting moment and flicked back to a spot on the carpet. The doctor’s ability to surprise him floored him yet again. No one had bothered to care so much for Sherlock. No one but John. Only John. His John. Sherlock walked to John and traced his fingertips carefully over the scar on his shoulder. He kissed John’s neck, still unable to fathom the love this man had for him. John gripped him at the waist and pulled him close to nibble on Sherlock’s earlobe. What small opportunity Sherlock had to go flaccid had immediately disappeared. Sherlock groaned his approval.

John reached back and flung the duvet aside. Climbing into bed backwards, he placed the lube and condom within easy reach, never taking his eyes off the beautiful detective. Jesus, thought John, he looked wrecked already and they had barely done anything. The cool air in the room only made the separation of their bodies that much more achingly awful, but soon they were both on their knees in the middle of the mattress, mouth to mouth, belly to belly, cock to cock.

Their hands were everywhere, caressing, exploring, teasing, investigating. Being naked together was so new to both of them and yet felt like the most natural thing in the world. It was a wonder to each man as to why they hadn’t done it before. But now they were and it was thrilling and warm and comfortable and right.

“Right. On your back, Sherlock,” said John softly. He was going to take his time with this; especially considering Sherlock’s bad history. John situated himself between Sherlock’s legs and leaned over him. He kissed the detective’s chest lightly, nuzzling his nose into each nipple, giving it a flick of his tongue, a suck, and a light scrape of his teeth that had Sherlock gasping and shuddering in response. God, this is hot, thought John as he moved lower over those creamy abs, taking in Sherlock’s scent of nicotine, tea, and a musk that was pure Sherlock. His tongue swirled around Sherlock’s navel, slowly dipping it in and Sherlock’s entire abdomen shivered. He moved lower, taking his time, kissing one protruding hip bone and then the other, nipping at them and then licking over the same area by way of a sensual apology. He glanced up at the detective. Sherlock looked completely undone and marvelously beautiful. John’s cock twitched at the sight and he realized that he couldn’t wait to be inside this man.

Nerve endings were firing at random all over Sherlock’s body. He had never been this out of control in his life -- unless you count being drugged up by a dominatrix, but no matter. The point was he was this out of control and didn’t want control back. He wanted John to undo him over and over again and he didn’t care if he never had another coherent thought for the rest of his life. But he only wanted this with John. He wanted this with his John.

John paused so long in staring at Sherlock that the detective’s eyes snapped open and looked at him. In response, John smiled, pulled Sherlock’s knees up, and began trailing kisses down the inside of one of Sherlock’s thighs, slowly, methodically, achingly moving toward Sherlock’s still-throbbing erection. It was fairly bursting from neglect by then and as soon as John’s hot mouth closed over the base of the shaft, Sherlock’s pelvis bucked. John traced the tip of his tongue up the shaft slowly, wanting Sherlock to feel the slow burn of anticipation. He knew that it would make the detective mad. Sherlock was the single most impatient man he had ever met. Even now, John could see Sherlock grabbing at the sheets with his huge fists. As soon as John’s tongue reached the frenulum, he placed his pursed lips to it and gave out a low hummmmmm… and Sherlock lost his mind.

Taking advantage of his slightly incapacitated flat-mate, John reached for the lube and used a liberal amount on his fingers before returning his mouth to Sherlock’s glans. His tongue circled the corona just as his fingers circled Sherlock’s anus. At the right moment, John took Sherlock’s glans in his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue playing over the frenulum. At the exact same moment, John slowly inserted one of his fingers into Sherlock’s opening. Sherlock moaned John’s name and that lust-filled baritone voice almost caused John to cum on the spot. John took Sherlock’s shaft in his free hand and began to stroke him. There was enough precum and saliva to ease any major friction, but John paused for more lube for both the shaft and his arse once it seemed that Sherlock was relaxed enough for two fingers.

Regaining the previous rhythm that seemed to work the best for Sherlock’s prick, John’s fingers moved in and out of Sherlock’s arse. Curving his fingers slightly, John sought out Sherlock’s prostate.

“Dear God, John,” said Sherlock. His words were a desperate moan once his prostate was affected. Sherlock had never known anything like it. This is what they meant when they said that anal sex could feel amazingly good. His first time had been rushed, awkward, and there was no lubricant except saliva – inadequate at best. This was something new altogether. Tentatively, Sherlock snaked his fingers into John’s hair, pushing gently to speed up the rhythm of his strokes. “So close, John. Please. So close.”

John pulled off Sherlock’s dick with a wet pop and squeezed the base of his shaft gently but firmly. He heard the detective suck in a breath in shock, bewilderment, and disappointment. “Not yet, love,” John said. “I want us to come together if we can. I need to watch you come, Sherlock. And I think you might be ready now.” John put on the condom, lubed himself and Sherlock again, and looked up at Sherlock.

“I need you to relax, Sherlock,” said John gently. “I told you I’m not going to hurt you. Let go. Trust me.” John hitched Sherlock’s knees up higher, placing the back of Sherlock’s knees at his shoulders leaving the detective’s heels on his back. He positioned his cock tip at Sherlock’s opening and slowly thrust his hips forward.

This sensation was like no other for either man. John could feel Sherlock slowly enveloping him, delicious heat building around his cock. Sherlock could feel himself being slowly invaded by warmth and pressure, but no pain. Just a full feeling that made him want more.

Sherlock dug his heels into John’s back and tilted his pelvis up more in a feeble attempt to impale himself on John’s cock. He wanted this more than he could say. He was truly hungry for this feeling of fullness. He wanted John inside him.

“Slowly, love,” said John patiently. “You can’t rush this bit. How’s that? You ok?”

“More. Want more,” Sherlock struggled. He had never been rendered monosyllabic in his life. To a separate analytical side of his brain that still had neurons firing, this seemed extremely odd. It was also odd that his hands couldn’t seem to find an adequate place to rest. He wanted to grab onto John, but restrained from doing so as it might upset him. The sheets offered no comfort, nor did the pillow or the base of the headboard above him, and if he attempted to touch his own prick, John wouldn’t get his wish of coming together. So his hands flew from place to place, resting only for a minute before shifting to the next place. Clearly, Sherlock was agitated, which only made John want him more.

John could barely contain his desire to fuck Sherlock through the mattress. He tried to focus, to steady his breath, and thought about how he didn’t want to ruin Sherlock’s first really good time by being selfish. He waited for Sherlock to relax again before he continued. When Sherlock’s base desires had subsided a bit, John pulled back a bit and then pressed further into his warmth and waited again. He continued this process until he was balls-deep inside his precious detective.

“God damn, you are so tight and hot, Sherlock,” John said, incredulously. “I want to have you like this every fucking night.”

“Please do,” said Sherlock. His voice had reached new heights of wantonness.

“I have to move, Sherlock. Tell me if I hurt you,” said John. He was concerned that Sherlock would put up with any pain in order to please John. It wasn’t worth it in the end and only built up resentments later. “Promise me that you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“I will, John. But please, I need to come.”

At this, John began to thrust in a shallow rhythm so as not to hurt his best friend. But after a while, he made use of longer strokes and angled himself to attempt to hit Sherlock’s prostate at every thrust. John balanced using one hand on the bed and reached over and took hold of Sherlock’s cock with his other. His hand and Sherlock’s cock were both still coated in lube and the glide of it added to Sherlock’s sensory explosion.

When they came it wasn’t quite in unison. John watched Sherlock’s back arch. Absolutely gorgeous. Sherlock's orgasm was building fast. His pale chest arched deeper, so erotic John thought he could come just from the sight of it. With a cry of John's name Sherlock's torso was splattered with ejaculate as the detective came hard. There was even cum on the headboard of the bed. It was a completely devastating sight to behold.

John couldn’t hang on any longer. Quickly, he thrust deep into Sherlock’s heat choosing a rhythm that would finish him off, wanting to give Sherlock time enough to focus on his orgasm just as John had witnessed his. Sherlock had clenched his anus around John’s prick and John could see the detective staring at him, his eyes mere slits, his face slack with pleasure.

“Pound me,” Sherlock whispered. “Claim me. Take me, John.”

John was undone. His orgasm rocked him as no orgasm had before. And that was saying something. He saw nothing. He saw a flash of light. He let out a cry which turned into a moan. He could feel himself exploding deep inside Sherlock with his final thrusts. Slipping his arms over Sherlock’s legs, he allowed himself to collapse on Sherlock’s chest barely noticing that he was getting Sherlock’s cum on his face and his hair in the process. He felt Sherlock wrap his long legs around him and begin to soothingly stroke his back. John exhaled, happy.

~080~

The next morning, Sherlock was still a bit sore, but he thought that would ease with time. Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have 24-hour access to a physician. But what was this... this 'thing' that happened between them? Was it something that John wouldn’t want to talk about? John was already showered and dressed when Sherlock woke up. Clearly a bad sign. Sherlock came downstairs to the sight he now beheld: John setting the kettle on the hob.

He decided to test the waters as John made the morning tea. He walked up behind John and kissed him on his neck. It was just a gentle press of his lips, not intended to arouse the good doctor, but to be affectionate. John turned to face Sherlock immediately and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Well, thought Sherlock, that answered that question.

Kiss ended, John regarded his friend (?) lover (?) with curiosity.

“Are we calling this something, or are we just going to fuck occasionally?” John asked.

“You’re asking if this is a legitimate and proper relationship. Is that right?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John.

Sherlock thought a moment. He was certainly agreeable to the idea. John was with him all the time. They worked together, they lived together, there would essentially be no change aside from the sexual intercourse, so why not?

“I have no objections. And you obviously don’t regret last night’s… activities,” said Sherlock.

“No I don’t regret last night. And I never will. As a matter of fact, I’m hoping that it’ll happen a lot more often,” said John. “Only, this new angle on who we are is going to bleed into our daily lives. People are going to notice.”

“People like Lestrade, you mean,” said Sherlock. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. Why would Lestrade notice anything like that? He was clearly at a loss with some of the most simple cases. Would he be able to accurately spot that John and he had had sexual congress? Oh but then there’s John, thought Sherlock. Yes, John would be a dead giveaway. John couldn’t pass off a lie if his life depended on it, more or less. John was right. They had to declare themselves a couple. It was the simplest way to own the situation. Own it completely.

“Yes,” said John. “Like Lestrade. And Molly. And Mrs. Hudson. Things would be a bit less complex if we just came out… erm… as it were.”

“Agreed,” said Sherlock. “Glad we cleared this up. Now, talking of Lestrade, we’re due at his offices this morning. Let’s get everything – and everyone – out in the open today, shall we?”

John was a bit stunned at the suddenness of the situation, but Sherlock wasn’t the kind to beat around the bush. They finished their tea and made their way to Scotland Yard, holding hands upon entering Lestrade’s office. Lestrade’s face was priceless.

Oh, yes, thought Sherlock. They were going to own this situation.


End file.
